Rain returned that night.

Not a storm, not a downpour—just that slow, deliberate kind of rain that slides down glass and feels like the sky’s quiet way of grieving. The city was half asleep, the streets glowing with blurred reflections of red and gold lights. Inside Bryan’s penthouse, everything smelled faintly of smoke, ash, and exhaustion.

Violet sat on the couch, wrapped in one of Bryan’s hoodies, staring at the wall. Her hair was damp from the shower, the scent of burnt wood still clinging to her skin no matter how many times she scrubbed. On the table in front of her lay what was left of the file they’d...